Son of a Witch
by FrostedFire
Summary: Mistakes piled upon mistakes from what was a gentle marriage, and things have blown out of proportion. Enter Augustus and Alistair Goyle, a bastard and a freak, attempting to break through the barriers of evil and good, just as things begin to heat up once more. Features a nervous Harry Potter, traveling through time, and the sudden appearance of a Dark Lord.


**Son of a Witch**

_Prologue, in which the main character cryptically creates code names for those below him in order to seem mysterious._

* * *

It was above Godric's Hallow where is he stood, poised, almost a gargoyle against the pale settling of snow, contrasting to a point that it was a surprise that he had yet to been seen. But the shadows seemed to be doing a rather adequate job of seemed to have done a grand job in becoming a mask, shielding him from the dotted figures below, making him no more than a background thought. Below, the cemetery lay like a spread dinner, dishes shining in the vague moonlight which traipsed across in streaks and shines. Though the snow seemed to make good work of hiding the crevices and masks of the grounds, the man could see the deep prints of feet which marked the ground, occasionally skirting around the larger crypts, always searching. From the snaked tracks grew a few creatures, a pair that he was very familiar with, laced arm in arm with others that were often considered to be outcasts. Even as his gaze became heated, they continued to wander, oblivious to their ultimate end. But it was not his place to enlighten them of what was to come.

Instead, the boy – no, man- hopped almost daintily from one cloud to the next, a lion amongst the clouds above. Here and there, he wove, almost passing through a few thin ones, to lazily come to a stop at what must have been the lowest. Perhaps it was not even a cloud, but an idea, growing and blossoming from the imaginations of children sleeping warmly in their beds.

He was now only twenty feet from them, able to point out simple features that one was unable to care about when leagues above. There were five of them, each a different height, painted strangely. Black locks, and blue orbed was one, almost always known as the Snake, and beside him rested a tiny, frail sprite with fiery locks. Was it Fire, too, that wandered with him? The wizard was expecting someone else- ah, there he was. Ice. Ice was there, with his companion of Water. The final two were picking leaves from each other's hair, taking care to examine each and every strand with a look of awe.

One stood disguised by the others, perhaps from height, or even from their protective stance around _it_. The dog.

"Well, when we've been told of it, Mother always said that it was inevitable," Water whispered in her sweet voice, prodding her companion briefly on the nose. "Experimenting and picketing before he could even walk. And putting his poor family to shame!"

"He was abused as a child," Ice announced. "Beaten, bruised. Maybe he was –

"Oh, you see abuse everywhere you look," Water responded.

"I'm only telling you what they've told me," her companion hissed.

As the female adopted a light tone, she added, "You're allotted your opinion, of course. But I heard that it was after his mum's death that he became like this. Spurned, neglected. You know how the other woman hated him, of course?"

The stony man rolled his orbs, and turned to the side, shifting so that the wizard saw the side of his nose, the prominent nostrils and hollow cheekbones. "A lost soul." He touched his heart, almost with a great deal of sarcasm. "As if I care."

"He's a man who adores men."

"That's allowed."

"He's a _girl_."

He almost reeled out of the sky, the young man, agog at the sudden and frustrating announcements of gossip which tickled his toes in an absurd way. He had ignored such trivial matters for so long, and now, what were they doing? Speaking ill of him in the worst of ways? But what did he care of these small matters, spoken by people of little importance?

"He isn't a girl, you, and hush your lips. Someone might hear, and on Christmas Eve, at that."

It was the Snake that twisted his head at the fall of the statement, gazing at the frozen block with an almost lidded gaze, finding his sight then transferring to the frail thing still fuming at being quieted. "Do you mind, the pair of you? Some of us would prefer to survive through the night, rather than carry on like a pair of old women. Shall I find you some yarn and needles? Knit me a lovely scarf, then, with your words which matter little in this world. We'll be upon the crypt, soon."

"Oh, what does the crypt matter?" wondered the 'dog', of all things, a solemn creature that was still being hidden by the large forms of its companions. "It's empty, mind you. Much like your brains."

_Empty._ That was all that the floating wizard needed to know, and it was those words which struck him suddenly, almost forcing him backwards. Empty! Where his mother laid, of all things! No, no, he was sure its occupant was true; he himself had seen her placed onto the robe of velvet, dumped into the ground with the bones of her future. It was a depressing scene, and something which struck into the child a cool sense that often trickled through his mind in the darkest of times. And, of course, it wasn't something that he would have created from the crooks of his thoughts. The appearance was too rich, too solid.

His head jerked once, twice, and almost with a huff, his foot caught along the chimney that was creating a seat for his person, the seared scent of wood trickling upwards his nostrils. A cough escaped his lips, and a brick toppled from the roof, much like the hinge of his jaw upon noticing the mistake. If they saw him, noticed him…

The item fell quickly, crushing the solid water with a slushing sound, falling so close to those he considered to be murderers, and arousing a gentle shriek from each of them. And yet, none thought to avert their eyes from the ground. They were much too focused on the task at hand.

"It matters."

"But why, pray tell? We've known of the body's absence for years now, and none seemed to think anything of it. Is it because of _him_?"

A pause, and Ice spoke. "Yes, it is because of him. Don't you know how obsessed he has become with solving the matter of death? Don't you recall the mania of his searches, how he seemed to ignore those who were very, _very _important to him?"

As he was met with what seemed to be a mutter amongst his peers, the man leaned from his discarded perch, daring to dangle an ankle within the damp darkness, hesitantly letting breath after breath snake from his lips into the air. What were they saying? Oh, what in Merlin did they desire from his dead mother's grave? A word? A thought? A book?

A body?

No, no. They had mentioned its absence.

And yet…

But he had little time to think, then. The sky had, from the beginning of their billowing conversations, begun to allow a short drift of dandruff to slip from the heavens, and was now becoming a great deal windier. If they were going to plot to reach the grave, they would have to do so later- the words and descriptions were practically impossible to understand, and the man above them was growing restless. He had learned nothing, he had found little within their banter. The snow was doing nothing to aid him.

When had it, though?

He reached for the stick that he brandished, and attempted to dissolve what stood before his eyes, and below, the companions did the same, to no avail. The snow was magicked, plotted, and at this very moment, he was uncertain as to who was able to think up such a theme. What was the point of keeping him from spying, and the young enemies from proceeding on their quest? Another adversary? A friend?

Too many questions, too little answers. He stood with a little click of his tongue, and pushed past the grim thoughts which were beginning to dance through his mind, and, in a bouncing motion, began to climb the clouds once more, just as four little pops resounded in the distance below.

* * *

**A**s always, original claim belongs to the author. Also, the first chapter's structure is quite similar to that of Wicked- but it will only be the prologue. I admire the writing, and took a vague outline (**and I am giving credit where credit is due**) in order to create a mysterious beginning.

The chapters will be getting longer.

Review, please!


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